


Time

by Ireliss



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Gen, Plot Twists, Post-Canon, Yassen Gregorovich Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:53:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25673116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ireliss/pseuds/Ireliss
Summary: The flap of pigeon wings against anonymous grey streets. Grenadine and coke. Alex is tired of their mind games, but as usual, he has no choice but to play along.
Relationships: Yassen Gregorovich & Alex Rider
Comments: 13
Kudos: 78





	Time

"-lex. Alex?"

Alex blinks, disoriented. Right. He is sitting outside a cafe, the building's cheery exterior a muted red under the overcast sky. The aromatic scent of coffee fills the air. His wicker-backed chair is positioned to give him the best view of the surrounding streets, but it's a quiet day, no milling tourists, not even any workers out for a spot of brunch. And there, seated right across from him―

"There you are." Yassen Gregorovich smiles at him. Despite the greyness of their surroundings, his eyes are clear blue and tranquil. "That must be a nice daydream you were lost in."

Unease stirs in Alex's gut, but no way out except forward. "Yeah, whatever."

"What was it about?"

"Just stuff." He gropes about for something to do with his hands. "Where's the menu? Let's order."

"We already did." Yassen's expression is impossible to read. "See?"

Sure enough, a waitress is stepping out of the cafe, drinks carefully balanced in her hands: a coke for Alex, something deep sparkling red for Yassen.

"Grenadine," Yassen explains, taking a long sip. The ice clinks against the glass. "It is a syrup made from pomegranates."

_Persephone and Hades_ , Alex recalls. Maybe he's a bit like Persephone himself, sucked into the dark belly of the underworld and never fully able to escape since, now trapped in an endless cycle of balancing two different lives.

"Didn't expect you to order something like that," he says instead. He didn't expect an obscure coffeeshop in London ― are they even in London? ― to sell that sort of drink either, but what does he know, it's not like his life had operated by any real logic since he was fourteen.

"Predictability gets you killed in our profession."

Alex scowls and takes a long swallow of his coke. It fizzes pleasantly against his tongue, a shock of cold. At least this feels like the real stuff. "We aren't in the same profession."

"No. Not yet," Yassen says cryptically. "You still have more freedom than I do."

Before Alex can demand an explanation, Yassen takes a long slow swallow of his drink, and Alex can't tear his eyes away from the way light filters through the grenadine to cast a ruby gleam against Yassen's throat. His scar is almost invisible. "You can relax, Alex. I only want to talk. Did you know this was one of John Rider's favourite drinks?"

"What?" Alex's traitorous heart jumps at the mention of his father. He's here on a mission, but Yassen always knew how to bait him. This time is no exception.

"Yes. He was the one to introduce me to it." Yassen's eyes go half-lidded and contemplative as he drinks again, the grenadine washing crimson against his lips. "A distinctive habit for such a careful man."

This is going all wrong, spinning wildly out of his control. He feels alive. Alex takes a swig of his coke, not missing the way Yassen's eyes track every minute shift of his expression. "Maybe it wasn't a real habit. Maybe he was just pretending. Ian never mentioned it before." But then, Ian had never talked much about his brother, Alex's father. Alex could never find out why, and now Ian is also dead.

His killer takes another meditative sip of his drink. "Maybe. There was much I didn't know about him. I know you better."

Alex doesn't bother to hold back a disbelieving scoff. "We barely know each other." At least, that's what it feels like to Alex; every single time he learns something about Yassen, something new pops up to upset his perceptions all over again.

"We know enough," Yassen disagreed. "You know me much better than you think. It's why MI6 chose you for this interrogation."

Silence. The overcast sky darkens. Somewhere in the distance, cooing pigeons scatter in a rush, disturbed by an unknown force. The sound of their flapping wings echo loudly in Alex's ears.

"Oh." Considering the circumstances, his voice is remarkably steady. "You know?"

"That none of this is real?" Yassen gestures at their surroundings, the rows and rows of nondescript brick buildings, the grey streets that are empty even though this is London at brunchtime. Even the sound of pigeon wings has died away. "Yes. It is a pleasant dream you built for us."

"Oh," he repeats. Adrenaline courses through him, but Alex stays seated, the knowledge that none of this truly _matters_ warring with the very sensible instinct to make a run for it, right now, because Yassen won't show mercy to someone trying to entrap him on MI6's orders. "When did you figure it out?"

Yassen's expression is mild. He takes another slow drink, every movement graceful ― languid, almost. Lazy. Alex isn't fooled. He knows how fast Yassen can move. Yassen seems to read his mind because he smiles, faint and amused, the sharp edge of threat he always carries lurking close to the surface. "I think I will leave that for you to discover. I expect you will make our next meeting much more interesting, little Alex."

Alex blinks. "You're just letting me go?"

"Should I not?" A half-shrug. "You will still have to pass the time with me until the dream ends. But compared to your usual missions, I don't think that is a great hardship."

No. There are worse ways to spend an afternoon than sipping coke in front of a cafe, nobody around him except Yassen. They don't even have to be restricted to the cafe. They could leave their drinks right now and go explore this dreamscape that had sprang from their intertwined minds, mapping out its empty streets and rippling edges. They could talk. That's all MI6 wants, after all. Information.

The temptation hangs there, almost tangible. It wouldn't be the first time Alex succumbs to it, but he doesn't think Yassen remembers those other times. It's probably for the best.

"I would like to hear more about your life," Yassen continues. "Shall we make an exchange? Tell me something interesting, and I will tell you something in return. A fact for a fact."

That's probably as good a bargain as he's ever going to get. MI6 is going to kill him if he doesn't take this chance and run with it, but Alex is struck by a surge of bitterness. "It's always about deals and bargains with you, isn't it?"

Another half-shrug. "Brokering a trade is a good skill to have. Why not give it a try? I offered you fair terms."

One for one. He could even lie and Yassen would never know, although he's always had an uncanny knack for knowing when Alex is hiding the truth. Still Alex hesitates. In the distance, a slight wind picks up, sighing through the avenue and its line of uniform, featureless trees. Even the leaves have faded to dusty yellow.

"We can start with something easy," Yassen says, expressionless as always, but a strange tension hums under the glacial blue of his eyes. "Tell me about your school, Alex."

Alex frowns, instantly on guard. He can see where this is going. Soften him up with some easy questions first ― _What classes are you taking, Alex? ― To be honest, I don't really remember_ ― then go in for the hard-hitting ones, the ones about MI6 and missions and the outside world. And the bait Yassen is dangling in front of him, the thing he's going to use to get Alex to talk? Alex watches the play of red light against his fingers, the wash of grenadine and ice chips against the rim of the glass. Yassen never does anything without focused intent underlying it. He had brought up Alex's father earlier, seemingly out of the blue.

Now Alex knows why.

He's sick of it all. Sick and tired constantly being surrounded by ulterior motives. He's had enough of it from MI6, and now Yassen is joining in too, just another person to use the ghost of his father against him. _It is the nature of our profession_ , he can almost hear Yassen say, but this _shouldn't be_ Alex's life. He had never woken up one day and decided to be a spy.

"Alex?"

"No deal."

"Oh?" Yassen sets down his drink.

"No deal," Alex repeats firmly. "This whole operation's already a bust. I'm not here to play your games."

"Then what will you do now?"

Alex meets his gaze and holds it. "Wake us up."

"Is that really what you want?"

"Yeah." If he lives through this enough times, if they go through this enough times, it'll get easier and easier. It'll stop mattering.

Yassen considers for a moment more, then nods, once. "Until next time, Alex."

Then he calmly shoots Alex in the head.

***

Alex is already throwing himself out of his seat even before he fully regains consciousness, pulse jackhammering in his chest, shaking all over. He rips the IV out of his arm and hurls it away. A long delicate line connects the needle to MI6's expensive dreamsharing kit and it twists in the air, almost snapping, but Alex can't bring himself to give a fuck about the state of the equipment right now.

The technicians flutter around him in alarm. Alex remembers pigeon wings, a startled flock, the only signs of life on a nondescript grey street.

Yassen's previous dreams had been full of life and detail, the sort of fine detail a professional assassin makes it his business to know. Something had changed. Is changing.

"-lex. Alex?"

Déjà vu shivers through him, setting his teeth on edge, but he relaxes slightly when he realizes it's Mrs. Jones speaking. She watches him with clear worry. "Alex, what happened down there?"

He opens his mouth to respond, but a flash of movement catches his eye. _Yassen._ MI6's most valuable prisoner stirs in the seat he is cuffed to, and as Alex watches, his eyes blink open just long enough to reveal a sliver of dulled blue-grey. He thinks he sees recognition spark in Yassen's eyes, but then the technicians in their flapping white coats descend on him. A needle slides into his skin, delivering another dose of sedative, and Yassen's gaunt face goes slack once more. His thin chest rises and falls slowly. The only spots of colour on him are the dark bruises shadowing his closed eyes.

Unnerved, Alex looks away as Yassen's limp body is bundled out of the room. Someone presses a glass into his hand; Alex automatically takes a drink, and the shock of cold water is so similar yet different to the coke he had in the dream that Alex's head spins.

"Going to be sick?" Someone asks kindly. Alex shakes his head, trying to breathe through the churning nausea.

He's fine.

(How is he supposed to be fine when he was just shot?)

He's fine. He's awake.

(He hadn't even seen Yassen draw the gun before it was in his hand. The last thing he saw was the flash of the muzzle. The deafening bang.)

None of it was _real._

"Alex?"

Slowly, the world swims back into focus once more. Alex straightens, about to take another drink of water, only to realise somebody had taken the glass from him when he wasn't looking. Most of the technicians had cleared off. It's only him and Mrs Jones in this part of the room. She waits patiently for him to regain his bearings, but Alex can feel the questions bubbling away inside her head.

"Are you all right?"

"Fine, thanks," Alex replies shortly. "Do we have to do the debriefing now?"

"It's best to do it while your memory is fresh, you know how dreams are." She gives him an encouraging look that he doesn't believe one bit. "What happened down there? You're back much earlier than we expected."

Alex hesitates for a second, then shrugs and gives the truth. "Yassen knew he was dreaming from the start."

"How?" At Alex's shrug, Mrs. Jones frowns. "So he terminated the dream by force?"

"Yeah, he shot me in the head if that's what you mean."

Mrs. Jones sighs. "I know you're very new to dreamsharing, Alex, so dream deaths must still be confronting to you, but it won't be very long until it's second nature."

Alex gives her a flat stare. He had similar thoughts just a few minutes ago, but it's one thing to be thinking it in the sanctuary of his own head and quite another to hear Mrs. Jones all but state out loud that he's meant to _get used to dying_ until he doesn't even feel it. "Right. Can I go now?"

"You didn't learn anything at all, then?"

"No."

"So Yassen said nothing to you at all?" Mrs. Jones frowns again. "He was more open the last few times. Even with little training, you've had more success with him than any of our professional extractors."

_You know me much better than you think. It's why MI6 chose you for this interrogation._

"He didn't say anything this time," Alex says shortly. "Are we done here?"

Silence. They stare at each other, Mrs. Jones seeming deep in thought, Alex trying to channel Yassen's unblinking poise. At last, Mrs. Jones lets out a weary sigh. "Alex, if you don't want to be a part of this mission..."

No, he doesn't. Alex is sick of the mind games. But there's just something about the sight of Yassen pale and still, exposed skin covered with old marks of torture, head shaved to make room for electrodes... Alex can't ignore the fact that he's all that stands between Yassen and more time spent with MI6's professional interrogators. At least any pain inside dreams isn't _real_.

In his mind, he sees Yassen smile, just a hint of irony tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I said I'll do it and I haven't changed my mind yet," Alex says. "I'll be back tomorrow to go through the plans before the next extraction attempt."

"I'm glad to hear that. Do take care, Alex."

With a muttered goodbye, Alex makes a quick exit before he can be roped into anything else. Maybe he'll hit the gym, he thinks. Something to tire him out. He doesn't want to dream tonight.

**Author's Note:**

> ...yes hi, this is a vaguely Inception-inspired AU! Let me know if it's too confusing and I'm happy to explain a bit more c:


End file.
